


When you've only got 100 years

by UmbreonGurl



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Feels, Female My Unit | Byleth, Gen, Literally everyone dies, Spoilers, no beta we die like men, some time shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 16:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmbreonGurl/pseuds/UmbreonGurl
Summary: Time waits for nobody. Nobody, that is, except for her.





	When you've only got 100 years

Seventy five years after the battle for Garreg Mach, Byleth visits Claude one last time. 

* * *

Over the years, people change. Hair turns gray, skin wrinkles, and time takes its toll on the body. As she looks over her teacup at Claude, she is all too aware of this. 

His hair has long since turned grey, and his hands shake slightly as he reaches for his own teacup. To her, it feels like just yesterday that he dragged her out to dance at the ball, before the war, before everything. 

“It’s been a while, huh?” he says. “We should meet up more often. You’ve been rather busy lately with your-“

His sentence cuts off when he coughs loudly. It’s a horrible sound, a wheezing, wet cough that makes her cringe. 

She instinctively feels her hand start to charge with the soothing thrum of healing magic and reaches for him, but he waves her off as he catches his breath.

“Save it for someone who needs it,” he says, lightly pushing away her hands. 

_Left unsaid is the “I won’t need it for much longer, anyways.”_

It’s a sore subject that the both of them dance around as they chat and reminisce about old times. The fact that she came because she heard his health was failing is never once brought up. Claude is nothing but jokes and smiles. 

People don’t live forever. All things that are born will die. That is the way things have always been and always will be. 

That is, unless you are Byleth. It has been seventy five years since the battle of Garreg Mach, and she still looks as if she is in her twenties. 

Lysithea passed a long time ago, having lived well into her forties.

Marianne died after having a successful career as an orator, having finally grown into a confident woman who captured the hearts and minds of all who heard her speak.

Leonie passed a few years ago, leaving behind several grandchildren and great grandchildren who have followed in her footsteps and continued to carry Jeralt's Mercenary company to success.

Ignatz and Raphael, too, are gone, having passed a few years before Leonie did.

Hilda, Lorenz, and Claude are the last ones left, but their time, too, is limited. 

Time waits for nobody.

_Nobody, that is, except for her._

“How is Seteth doing?” he says. He gives her a pointed look when she takes too long to respond. “Oi, Teach. You in there?”

He snaps his fingers in front of her face until she snaps back to reality. “After all this time, you still have your head in the clouds, huh?”

“I apologize,” she replies. “As far as I know, he is doing well. I have not heard from him, recently, though, and should probably check in with him. Last I heard he and Flayn have taken up running a small farm.”

“Seteth? A farm?” Claude snorts. “Did he finally remove the stick from his ass just so he could use it to make a scarecrow?”

She feels her lips turn up around her teacup. “I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed.”

“Of course it hasn’t. I wouldn’t be Claude without it.” 

He sips his tea.

“I appreciate you coming all this way to see your dear old student,” he says. “Lorenz didn’t have the decency to come visit. He’s probably still afraid to bring his old, bald ass over here. Knows I’d make fun of him for it.”

“You don’t have room to make fun of his hair,” she replies, pointing a finger at his goatee, which has now turned almost white.

“Excuse me, my hair is gorgeous. Look at me! I’ve still got it, even in my nineties.” Claude mockingly gasps a little, choking over his own breath a little as he coughs again and she can’t help but wince.

He pulls out an old chessboard, and she smiles as she recognizes it as the one she gave him back at the Officer’s Academy, well cared for and maintained for all these years. A few pieces have been replaced since when she first gave it to him, but the fact he still has it after all this time is heartwarming.

“Up for a game?” he says. 

“Always,” she replies.

Their meeting is bittersweet, and ends far too soon for her liking. 

“Come back and see me again soon, won’t you?” says Claude, grasping her hand in his as he kisses it like he did when he was twenty two. “Next time you come to visit, bring more gifts for the grandkids. They _ love _ the dolls you got them. And you know I always appreciate you coming by.”

He smiles at her, and she smiles back, and they both know full well that the next time she’ll see him will be at his funeral.

* * *

Lorenz and Hilda go not long after Claude does, and she has never in her life felt so alone. She leaves Fodlan for a few centuries (she thinks it was five-ish, but she wasn’t counting), before returning home. She sends Seteth a letter, and when she returns to Fodlan, they meet up on the coast they once fought together on, so long ago. 

“How do you deal with it?” she asks him. “The fact that they’re gone. How do you move on?” 

They gaze out over the waves, and he sighs. 

“You don’t. Not fully.” 

She’s kept an ear out for news of their descendants, and as far as she knows, everyone's families are thriving. She can’t bring herself to go visit. It’d bring questions she isn’t prepared to answer. It’s better to leave things as they are. 

“Then what do you do?” she says. 

“You simply treasure the memories you have with those you love. Even if their time on this earth is brief compared to ours, it is still valuable.”

The chuckle that rises in her throat is far too bitter, far too pained.

“I never said it wasn’t valuable. But you say ours as if I was…” she clenches her fists. “You say ‘ours’ as if I was always like this. I didn’t used to be like this. I was never supposed to be like this. And even _ you _will eventually age. I have the power to rewind time, but I can’t stop everyone I love from dying.”

“And you can’t change that,” he replies with a sigh. “Everyone will die, eventually.”

He’s right. Time waits for nobody. No matter how many times you rewind it, it will always take its course eventually. She knows this. She’s _ tried _ rewinding, but it all happens just the same. Lorenz’s hairline slowly creeps upward until he eventually goes bald. Hilda’s face becomes covered in wrinkles. Claude’s hair slowly turns grey, and then silvery-white, and his once steady hands start to tremble.

Tears flow down her face for what feels like the first time in centuries (and it probably is).

Seteth puts a hand on her shoulder.

“But the fact that you cannot change that is what makes the moments you share with the people you love even more precious.” 

“It doesn’t make it hurt any less,” she says.

“I know,” he replies.

Flayn walks up the hill behind them, setting down a basket of homemade sweets as she takes a seat by her side and gives her a hug. 

She has grown a bit, now looking a bit more like a young adult, as if only one or two years have gone by, instead of a few hundred.

“It’s been a long time, professor,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”

Byleth hugs her back, tucking Flayn’s head under her chin. “It’s good to see you too, Flayn.” 

* * *

Byleth sees them several more times in the coming millennia before time eventually takes its toll on them, too, and she is alone.

Garreg Mach still stands tall, delicately maintained and cared for with just as much love as ever. The most noticeable thing for her is the fact that now among the statues of the saints a stone figure of herself stands tall, sword in hand. 

As she looks at the statue, it brings up an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. She watches as several people kneel in front of it in prayer and others leave offerings, seeking good fortune, wealth, and prosperity. 

She is no goddess. 

But to them, she is a legend, a holy figure who saved the world thousands of years ago. They see the myth, they see the legend, but they do not see the woman. 

The legend she once was lies dead, armor sitting on display in the archives along with her sacred sword. Byleth Eisner died a long time ago. 

One of the clergy sees her staring up at the statue and approaches her with a smile. 

“Ah, I see you’re enamored by the Enlightened One,” he says. 

She hums.

“You could say that.”

“Would you like to know more about her history? I’d be happy to tell you anything you’d like.” 

She knows he means well, and while she appreciates the sentiment, she’s in no mood to chat about ‘history’ that to her, still feels days old.

“I’m alright, thanks,” she replies. “I was merely admiring the statue. It’s gorgeous.”

“That it is,” he agrees. “If you need any assistance, please let me know, and I’d be happy to help.”

She nods at him, and he moves to speak to other travelers.

She is a woman out of place, with far too much time, and she does not belong here anymore.

She leaves Garreg Mach with an ache in her heart, before leaving Fodlan once again.

* * *

The sun continues to rise and set, and she is still around to watch as horses slowly fade out and are replaced by machines. The world moves on around her, and paintings are replaced by photos, letters replaced by e-mails and phone calls. 

Technology advances, and as wondrous as it is, it makes her life quite a bit harder.

Standardized identification means that it requires far more effort to stay under the radar, and she’s had to pick up some less than scrupulous skills to be able to forge the papers she needs.

The age of gods is long gone, and the Knights of Seiros are all but a formality at this point, a tradition people uphold for the sake of it rather than practicality.

Some part of her longs to teach once again. Everything else has lost its charm when she has done it over and over and nothing has changed. The hole in her heart is still gaping, and the one thing she feels like she hasn’t tried again in all these years is teaching.

But these days, teachers require more than sword skills and being in the right place at the right time. Teachers these days require _ degrees_. She forges her credentials, and applies to a local university as Byleth Eisner, history major. 

It’s been so long now since she’s used that name. She’s pretty sure that nobody would even _ think _ to connect the sacred figure from thousands of years ago to the girl who sits in the back of their Ancient Fodlan History lecture.

She passes through her classes with flying colors, and her professors praise her, claiming that she is “the best student they’ve ever had.”

“You must have gotten your love of history from your parents, huh, if they gave you a name like that,” says one of them.

She chuckles.

“Yeah,” she replies. “Something like that.”

She gets her bachelor’s degree, and almost immediately after, throws herself into graduate school. She writes a thesis on her own history, gets her degree, and immediately applies for a teaching position. 

She’s quickly accepted and starts teaching freshman history classes. It’s an easy routine to fall back into, grading papers late at night over tea, attending faculty meetings, guiding students to success one by one. For the first time in a long time, she feels at home. Several semesters go by without much fanfare. 

* * *

It is finally the start of this year’s fall semester, and as Byleth leaves her office, she quickly glances over the list of the students in her 9 AM lecture. She swears her heart almost stops.

Right next to several all-too-familiar names, are pictures of several all-too-familiar faces.

_Claude Riegan. Political Science._

_Marianne Edmund. English. _

_Hilda V. Goneril. Fashion Design._

_Lorenz H. Gloucester. Business._

_Leonie Pinelli. Criminal Justice._

_Raphael Kirsten. Nutrition and Health Sciences._

_Ignatz Victor. Graphic Design._

_Lysithea Ordelia. Dual-Credit Program High-School Student._

She walks into the room and tries to avoid letting her jaw drop. She had seen the pictures, yes, but it just wasn’t the same as seeing them in the flesh, as if they had walked right out of her memories into her classroom.

She takes a deep breath, and tries her hardest not to let her voice waver as she picks up a piece of chalk and starts to write her name on the board. 

“Hello, class. Welcome to Fodlan History 1001. I’m Professor Byleth Eisner.”

She turns around for one second and is about to continue before she notice’s Claude’s hand is raised, smile on his face.

_Do not say anything. He has his face, he has his name, but he is not him. They are not them. They are not them. They are not them._

“Do you have a question?” she says.

_They are not them._

“Yes, actually.” He turns and glances at the rest of his classmates, who all smile back at him. “I think we all do.” 

_They are not them. _

“Do you take late work, Teach? Because I think we’re all _ way _over the due date for a class reunion. Hopefully, with a lot less violence this time, though.”

She drops her chalk. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, in reply, but the words just linger on the tip of her tongue.

_Okay, maybe they _ ** _are_ ** _ them._

**Author's Note:**

> This is what my brain decided to spout out after listening to 100 years by Five for Fighting on loop while half asleep. :) Feels and irony. Plot? Never heard of it. I deal feels out of a trenchcoat in a back alley behind a Denny's.


End file.
